


stealing romance

by deadlybride



Series: Milk Carton Kids [11]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Light Angst, M/M, Pre-Series, Stanford Era, implied pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 16:19:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7539481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>October 9, 2003. Dean visits Sam at Stanford.</p>
            </blockquote>





	stealing romance

**Author's Note:**

> The Milk Carton Kids - Live at Lincoln Theatre, track eleven

_Fall in the park under rain clouds_  
_A shot in the dark for a kiss_  
_A heart to restore to an old life—_  
_to miss._

 

He’s waiting on the bench outside Landau when Sam trots down the steps after Xiao’s class, arms spread over the back, sprawled out like an idle king. Sam stops in his tracks at the bottom of the stairs, creating a little dam that the other students flow around. He swallows, and hitches his backpack up higher on his shoulder. It’s been… months.

“Hey, Dean,” he says, finally.

Dean raises his eyebrows, looks him over. He’s wearing the coat their dad passed down, worn-pale jeans, his hair a little longer than Sam remembers. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Do I know you? Because I was looking for my baby brother, who was like four feet tall last time I saw him,” and Sam rolls his eyes but he can’t help it, he wants to smile anyway. Months, and of course Dean hasn’t called, hasn’t emailed, and here he is, trying to pretend he’s funny, like always.

“Can’t really hear you from down there, buddy,” Sam says, with a shrug. “You’ll have to speak up.”

Dean grins wide and shoots up to his feet, slugs Sam hard in the shoulder. His eyes are crinkled-up, bright, and Sam allows it when Dean gets him into a headlock, even if he has to go up onto his tiptoes to do it. His chest is tight. God, it’s been so long.

He lets Dean drive him to a divey sports bar, lets Dean order them both crappy beers with whiskey chasers. “Surprised you’ve still got that ID,” Dean says, when Sam’s tucking the fake that says he’s twenty-four back into his wallet. Sam shrugs, trying for casual, and for some reason that makes Dean grin again before he nods up at the TV showing ESPN and launches into a mocking dissection of the Cardinal as a mascot. Sam settles in, curls both hands around his icy beer. He was supposed to go to a bio study group at four o’clock. This is harder, but he’s going to soak it in anyway. He has to take what he can get.

There’s no rhythm to these visits. Sam’s two months into his sophomore year, has been divorced from his family for over a year now, and Dean’s been to see him four times. The first time he was waiting in Sam’s dorm room when he came back from class, sporting two broken ribs and a black eye, and that argument lasted half the night. Sam’s a little more relaxed, this time, but it’s still—

He swallows down the last of his beer, and Dean orders another for him without pausing in his mild bitching about the radio stations in Palo Alto. Sam wonders if he’s still carrying the same pearl-handled Colt at the small of his back, and then realizes, no, of course he is. He’s relaxed against the scarred wooden back of the booth, Mom’s ring flashing when he gestures with his broad, capable hands. He looks… healthy. Tanned and strong. No sign of injury, this time, though that could be because he’s hiding it better. Could be somewhere Sam can’t see. Sam pushes a hand through his hair, looks out the window at the cloudy, late-afternoon sky so that he doesn’t just stare at his brother, so that his thoughts won’t show on his face, but Dean falters anyway. He drags his nearly-empty beer over the tabletop. The glass judders hollowly over the wood, and it’s a relief when the waitress stops by and Dean asks for the check.

Outside, Dean shoves his hands into his jacket pockets, leans against the Impala. “Looks like it’s gonna rain,” he says.

They haven’t talked about Sam’s classes, about his major or his plans for the future. They haven’t talked about what Dean’s doing in California, or what he’s been doing in the dark for the last fourteen months. It’s how they manage, without arguing. They learned that after Dean’s first visit. Sam doesn’t know how long they can keep it up.

“You remember the time I made you write my essay for that stupid play?” Dean says, out of nowhere.

Sam frowns, readjusts his backpack on his shoulder. “You mean—what, _The Crucible_? The one with the witch hunt?”

“Not much of a witch hunt, if you ask me,” Dean says. There’s a damp smell to the air and a breeze has picked up—California weather, Sam thinks, turning on a dime. “Mr. Mannahan was going to flunk me if I didn’t turn in something.”

Sam remembers. Just before Dean dropped out for good—Sam read the play all night while Dean disappeared with Dad to take care of some grim horror, and Sam swallowed down his worry and scrawled out a half-assed essay just in time for Dean to scoop it out of his hands, ruffle his hair in thanks, and bolt to school under threat of truancy charges on the strength of two cups of coffee, the neat field-stitches holding his guts in hidden under the same jacket he’s wearing right now. Sam’s still furious with their dad about that day. Add it to the list, he thinks.

“I think I got you an A on that,” Sam says, after a moment.

Dean stops contemplating the sky long enough to actually look at Sam. There’s a smile flickering around the corner of his mouth. Sam could forgive a lot, for that expression. He remembers a too-warm August night, a furious argument and words that could never be taken back, but he also remembers Dean doing everything he could to stop it. Remembers strong hands on his shoulders, a bone-cracking, desperate hug just before he got on the Greyhound that took him into another life. He’s got something now, something real. Proof that it can be okay. Dean’s just looking at him, searching his face, and Sam thinks, _maybe_ , opens his mouth—and then Dean’s phone rings. Only one person ever calls Dean. Sam bites the inside of his cheek.

Dean turns away from Sam to answer, head ducked down. “Yes, sir,” he says, curt and military. How immediately the distance comes back. Sam knows what’s going to happen next even as Dean nods silently, claps his phone closed, and turns back to Sam with a half-smile and a shrug. His expression isn’t disappointed, isn’t apologetic. Of course it isn’t.

“Gotta go,” he says.

Sam nods, and turns his face away. The little flare of something that had been building in his belly flickers, and goes out.


End file.
